William Williams. His parents were creative.

I was cruising Ian's notes blog just now, again reviewing what I missed last week. I reread the poem by William Carlos Williams and was overcome with an intense feeling of deja vu.
I've read this before. Like really read this.

It took me a solid five minutes, but then I remembered. A couple years ago, I took the 200 level Intro to Lit class, as I'm sure some of you have taken. The last third of the semester was dedicated to poetry, as was our final paper. There's a lovely website, of which the name escapes me, that is similar to a database but filled with only poetry. I had this ingenious idea to find a poem and write the back-story; the situation in which the poem was inspired, as if I was the author. In this lovely website/database, I typed 'red' into the search bar and guess what was the first hit?

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

I've found my paper, in an archive on my email account.
Here's the first few lines:

"I open my eyes to just slivers. Sunlight floods my bedroom as I shift to my side and flop my arm across the bed. He’s gone, again. 

Breathe deep. 

Arm retracts to its usual position in front of my chest, hand-under-face. There’s still an indent in his pillow, sheets aren’t yet cold. 

Sigh. 

I’m not that surprised, but I find myself pissed off all the same."

It may be difficult to picture where this story leads, but I assure you, in the end it all works out.